


Solo

by Dracouroboros



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Edgeplay, Masturbation, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-12
Updated: 2017-11-12
Packaged: 2019-02-01 10:37:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12703263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dracouroboros/pseuds/Dracouroboros
Summary: Genji takes some solo time to himself.Meant to be for Kinktober but I forgot.





	Solo

**Author's Note:**

> I completely forgot what I was supposed to be doing all of last month. Whoops.
> 
> Anyway, here's roughly 3K words of Genji doing his own thing. I thought about making this a series and giving each character (or as many as I can be bothered writing) a fic where they have some "them time" but Idk if I have the patience for that or if there's any interest in it.
> 
> Either way, read away and enjoy.

Genji reclined on his bed, breathing in the quiet of the evening. The navy shadows shifted across the walls, the dim light filtering through the closed curtains that rippled lazily from the open window, breaking the stillness of his room. Stripped naked, goosebumps rose on his skin in the cool midsummer air, trailing down his arms and legs to where his skin gave way to metal and artificial fibres at his thighs and elbows. His hands lay clasped over his chest, the entirety of the right side replaced from shoulder to waist, the sleek cybernetics tapering to mimic the natural slope of his rib cage. He lightly ran his fingertips back and forth along the lip of the plating at his sternum, his touch ghosting over the meeting of warm flesh and cool, hard metal.

He had reached a level of comfort and acceptance with his body after almost a decade of living with it, the amalgamation of warm, soft flesh and cold, hard metal and silicone that made him. The myriad of scars no longer bothered him, nor did the damaged nerves beneath the skin that caused either hypersensitivity or complete numbness in the tissue. The conflicting sensations had once caused a deep disconnect with himself, now the strangeness of it barely fazed him most of the time, accepting it as part of himself. After years of self-denial, he had refamiliarized himself with his body in quiet, private moments, exploring and mapping out old and new areas that stimulated pleasure in him. Now, it once again brought him immense pleasure, as it had done in his youth, and he enjoyed finding the quiet, private moments that were rare in the Watchpoint, to take the time and savour the responses he could elicit from his body.

He breathed deeply, his eyes drifting shut as he exhaled through half-parted lips, repeating the slow, steady rhythm several times, mimicking meditation. Lifting his hands from his chest, he raised them to rest on either side of his head, and turned them palm inwards, stroking his splayed fingers down the column of his neck, caressing the length of his collarbones and back to the notch at the base of his throat. He retraced his path up his throat, skated his fingertips along the sharp line of his jaw, the artificial skin mimicking the natural softness and warmth, until they met on his chin in semblance of prayer.

His breathing remained deep and steady as he hooked a thumb under his chin and tilted his head further back into the pillows, tracing his finger over his lips. He stroked his free hand up his face, the back of his fingers brushing over his cheekbones, the bridge of his nose, up over his forehead. Carding his fingers through his dark hair, he grabbed it in his fist and slowly arched his head back, baring his neck to the empty room.

He sucked in a breath, releasing his hold on his chin and wrapping his hand around his neck, skimming down to his collarbone, then further still, his nails drawing long, hard lines over his sternum, looping under the curve of his left pectoral and up to his armpit. Digging his fingernails into the skin, he dragged them down his side, over the bumps and dips of his ribs, the long ridges of scar tissue rippling his skin, till he reached the sharp angle of his hip. He drew his hand back and repeated the motion, his thumb stretching out to drag at his nipple.

Heat stirred in his belly, his mouth dry as he kept himself pinned by his hair. He bent one leg up, his foot pressing into the mattress. Repeating the scratching motion down his side, he stopped when his thumbnail caught his nipple, rolling the pad of his thumb over it until it peaked, hard under his touch. He flattened his hand over his chest, his palm brushing against the hard, dark pink nub. Beneath the hot skin, his heart thumped against his ribs in a quickening tempo.

He swallowed, the click of his throat loud in the quiet of the room, and he slipped his hand down his abdomen, fingers stroking down his happy trail until they rested at the base of his cock. It curved up against his stomach, hard and thick, but he didn’t touch it yet, skirting around it to his bent leg, stroking down the inside of his thigh and then back again, tracing a line up one half of the sharp, narrow V of his hip bones to the taut skin overlying the crest. He teased himself for several minutes, skimming his fingertips back and forth over his hip bone, gradually inching closer and closer back to his heavy cock lying stiff against his stomach.

Finally, he reached into the drawer beside his bed and pulled out a small, innocuous bottle of lubricant, popping the cap and coating his fingers in the clear fluid. Keeping the bottle on the bed beside him, he wrapped his fingers around his cock, and stroked himself from base to head, a rush of breath escaping his lips in a sigh.

He stroked himself in long, slow lines, pulling back the foreskin to reveal the flushed red glans on the downstroke, precum beading from the slit. He moaned, his hand tightening in his hair, uncaring about the risk of being heard through the walls.

Some habits were hard to break, and when he was younger and thriving in his playboy lifestyle, he had a desire to be heard, to be the centre of everyone’s attention. It hadn’t mattered whether he was sharing a hotel room with a half dozen other people, in the end stall of a club bathroom or even the dancefloor; it hadn’t mattered who he had been with for the night - boy or girl or one of each or whatever - he had always wanted everyone who might be in earshot to know exactly what they were doing. He wanted everyone to know just how well he treated his partners, how good he was at making them feel good. And he knew how to make himself feel good.

He gasped, his mouth dropping open as he panted for breath; he sped up his motions, his spine arching off the bed, instinctively jerking against his own hand keeping his head pulled back against the pillow. He thumbed the precum over the head of his cock, tightening his grip on the way down and relaxing it on the way up again, twisting his hand around the shaft to drag the pads of his fingers along the underside, the vein running the length of his cock hot and pulsing under his fingertips. His legs quivered, his muscles tightening as liquid fire pooled in his belly, licking up his spine.

The coiled spring of his pleasure grew tight, threatening to snap, to release the hot tension in his body and tip him over the edge into ecstasy. He dug his foot deeper into the mattress, shivers wracking through his body as his calloused palm continuing to rub the silken skin of his hard cock. His heavy balls drew up to his body, the last warning before sweet, hot release, and he pulled his hand away from his cock with a choked gasp.

He sucked in a deep breath, exhaling with a pained moan through his panting breaths, whining at the loss despite the blame resting solely on him. He released his hair and balled his hands into fists, gripping the sheets, listening to his own ragged breaths in the silence of the empty room. His cock ached for its denied release, the head flushed red and dripping precum onto his stomach.

He lay unmoving for several long minutes, waiting for the sharp edge of pleasure to dull before he risked touching himself, even just to run the back of his hand over his forehead, wiping away the perspiration on his skin. Usually he would conjure up a fantasy, or a memory, to enjoy while he pleasured himself, but with this, he found he didn’t need the use of his imagination to stimulate his body. When it came to edging himself, he found it sabotaged his attempts to last longer when he let his mind wander too far from staying in control.

He had discovered his love for edging accidentally; he couldn’t recall the exact details of the particular venture that had provided him with such insight into himself, he just recalled loving it, and wanting more. He had started doing it deliberately – by himself and with partners - seeing how far he could push himself before he snapped; he could never match the number of times his partners could bring him to the brink only to let the wave of pleasure ebb back before beginning again. He had also discovered his love of being held down through multiple exploits with multiple partners, through experimenting and wish fulfilment. It didn’t feel the same when he did it to himself, but eh, what could he do?

He waited until his breathing evened out, until his heart stopped hammering against his ribcage, his blood pounding thunderously in his ears. His erection had softened to semi-hardness before he released his hold on the bedcovers underneath him and returned his touch to his body, beginning once again with his hands clasped on his chest.

Smoothing his hands across his warm skin, he stroked both hands down his body, over the hard lines of his abdomen and the thick hair of his happy trail. Digging the heel of his palm into his lower stomach, his other skirted the base of his cock, reaching between his legs and cupping his balls in his hand. He bit his lip, his legs quivering as if to snap closed, and he forced them to fall open, his thigh muscles warming at the stretch.

He moaned, shuddering back against the soft mattress as he palmed his balls, grinding the heel of his palm against his lower stomach. His cock hardened fully again, flushed red and heavy, his knuckles ghosting over the hot skin as it swelled. Pulling his hand back, he pressed his palm flat against the head of his cock, trapping it against his stomach and focusing his attention solely on the head, rubbing his palm back and forth, slow and firm. It wasn’t enough and too much at the same time; the friction focused only at the head of his cock driving him wild until he was arching his back again and pulling in air through his teeth.

The slow growing pleasure knotted low in his belly, his muscles pulling taut under perspiring skin, heat spreading down to his cock. His mouth fell open and he panted, a steady, quiet stream of “fuck, fuck fuck” gasped through his lips as he tried to rut into the sensations, his other hand still rolling his heavy, tight balls in his hand, squeezing to the point just shy of painful, adding a razor thin edge to his pleasure. Precum pooled on his stomach, sliding across his skin with his sinuous writhing, his thumb smoothing over the fat, blunt tip of his cock, spreading the beading precum around the flushed head.

The pleasure turned into hard tension, his balls drawing up to his body. His thighs quivered, his back and neck arching as heat licked up his spine, lightning crackling through his body. It speared its way down to the furnace in his core, ready to erupt.

He made a strangled sound in the back of his throat, and tore his hands away from his body before he could hit the peak of his release that he both craved and deliberately denied. Whining at the loss, he threw himself over onto his stomach and folded his arms under his head to keep from touching himself. His hips jerked, wanting to rut against the cool, smooth bedsheets, but he forced them still, the constant friction on his cock beginning to ache and chafe.

He whimpered, his body quivering with need, trying to ride through the energy thrumming through his body. He gasped for breath, wiping the sweat from his brow with his forearm as he lay stretched out on his bed, waiting for the fire in his belly to cool. Next time, he promised himself, next time you can come.

Sometimes when he made promises like that to himself, he could hold out for an extra round or two, teasing himself till he was strung out and almost crying. Still, edging himself couldn’t compare to having a partner that could tie him up or hold him down, controlling the ebb and flow of his pleasure as the moon controls the tide, getting him to the point of blissed out begging and pleading, where pain and pleasure melted together into molten sensations of overstimulation. Adding toys to the mix brought on a new level of frustration, where the focus of stimulation was juggled around his body, never settling, and no amount of rocking into any of the sensations gave him release.

The pillow underneath him muffled his moans, and he clenched his hands, shivers dancing down his spine.

 _Stop it, you’re trying to calm down._ He chastised himself. He didn’t think he could hold out for more than three rounds, he couldn’t get into the headspace to push him deep enough. Oh, but he wanted to: he wanted to savour this time with his body, wanted to enjoy it as much as possible when he didn’t know the next time he could have this. Of course, he could bring himself off and then come back in an hour or so for another round, but he had no way of knowing if he’d still be in the mood in an hour or so, if he’d have the desire or the energy to build himself back up and string himself along a little while more. He missed the days when his refractory period was minutes, when he could go round after round without any trouble. Now, after everything his body went through, he had to take things slower and savour it.

He groaned again, licking his dry lips and huffing against his forearm. The knot of tension in his groin didn’t disperse, sitting hot in his lower abdomen. He exhaled a shaky breath, licking his lips again, full of restless energy that had nowhere to go. He didn’t want to risk moving for fear of tipping himself over the edge and climaxing too soon, so he lay there, gripping the sheets and trying not to roll his hips for friction.

He rolled onto his back, the cool air of his room bliss against his hot skin, and wiped his forehead before dropping his hands to his chest again. Rubbing his chest in slow, methodical circles gave him something to focus on while the burn in his body cooled, before he was ready to begin again.

He didn’t go straight back to his cock, his hand detouring across his chest to pluck and pinch at his nipple, rolling it between his fingertips till it was a hard nub, red and swollen from his ministrations. Already his breath began to quicken in anticipation, his cock stirring from where it lay, still hard against his stomach. He skirted his hand down his body, smoothing over the skin as he pawed around the messed-up bed sheets under him, grabbing the lubricant bottle and coating his fingers again. Wrapping a slick hand around himself, he hissed a breath through his teeth, the cool wetness jolting his nerves, a shock against the hot skin of his cock.

This time round, he kept his movements lazy and slow; long, languid strokes from tip to base, thumbing the slit and tracing the vein down the underside with his fingertips. He sighed, parting his lips and arching his back gracefully from the rumpled sheets, his free hand skimming across his hot skin from navel to neck. He turned his head to the side, moaning against the pillow as he spread his legs wide, riding through the heat rising in his belly. His hips jerked and rolled up into the tightness of his curled-up hand, throwing off his rhythm, his thighs trembling and slick with sweat.

He cried out as sparks danced behind his closed eyes, fisting his free hand in his pillow. His chest heaved with ragged, shuddering breaths, the constant friction on his cock becoming close to painful as the pleasure increased in pressure once again, low in his abdomen, his muscles twitching and tensing as the heat spread through his body. He threw his head back with a loud, strained moan, unable to stop as the pleasure and the heat swelled, spilling over and his vision whited out, the tension finally snapping.

His body pulled taut as he came over his hand and stomach with a silent gasp, his voice stolen from his throat, his breath stopped short in his lungs in the rush of ecstasy. Finally giving himself the desired release he had promised himself, he lay boneless and spent on the sheets, striped with slick lines of his spill. His gasping breaths were the only break in the dark silence of the room for several minutes afterwards, one arm thrown over his face as he panted, riding the aftershocks on the way back down to himself. His free hand rested on his belly, the skin burning under his sticky, slick fingertips.

He lay unmoving for some time afterwards; he wasn’t sure if he dozed off or not, caught in the limbic space between sleep and awake until he found his bearings and his limbs stopped shaking.

Finally, after god knew how long, he pulled his arm away from his eyes and blinked to adjust to the growing dimness of the room. The clock by his bedside read it was closing in on eleven, and he reached out to switch on the bedside lamp, flooding the room with pale yellow light as he pushed himself up to sitting position. Looking down at the mess he made of himself, he wrinkled his nose slightly but did not lose his smile, blissed out and relaxed after a good wank. He didn’t think it compared to sex, where he could lounge in the afterglow and wait for round two, or another drink, but he couldn’t deny the enjoyment he found in the time he spent pleasuring himself.

He reached his arms up above his head, stretching his shoulders and back until they clicked, before he swung his legs off the bed and stood – a little shakily, which delighted him – and made his way to the bathroom to clean himself up before turning in for the night.

Tipping his head back with a lazy smile on his face under the stream of the modified shower to account for his cybernetics, he considered perhaps he had enough in him for one more round before the night was over, and a fantasy that would help him out rather nicely.


End file.
